


Still feel that pull.

by mmmmmmmmmmm



Category: One Direction (Band), The 1975 (Band)
Genre: M/M, i am sinning too much, literally kill me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:52:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmmmmmmmmm/pseuds/mmmmmmmmmmm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry invites Matty out to a party, but that's not what matters; what matters is that hours later they're still together, and neither of them want to go home. So they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still feel that pull.

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i've lowkey shipped harry styles and matty healy for the longest time (despite their being no evidence whatsoever of them even being friends), but i blame bec (whatthebec on tumblr) for this stealy spiral i've been on. i'm literally in the pits of hell right now, sweating and sinning. anyways!!!!!!! here's harry painting matty's nails and weird emotional shit happens!!!!!!! i'm sorry! (btw i kno they're not in love irl guys i just like writing about them together 'cause they pretty that's all ok enjoy :* )

It doesn’t feel real at all, most times-- being in Harry’s presence. But this time around, it’s extra surreal. 

And it’s not just because Matthew is off his head.

No, it doesn’t have to do with that at all, although it probably intensifies the otherworldly experience. He’s got Harry sitting so close to him on the floor of a shitty motel somewhere in central LA. Harry had insisted Matty come out to some record label’s party, but that was long over-- everyone had gone home to their respective houses and, well, now him and Harry were here.

It’d been an odd decision to not just go back to one of their own houses together, but something about this felt right. Safe. Threw off the scent of certain paparazzi and fans.

It didn’t matter where they were, anyways. What mattered was that he was with this wildly beautiful boy. Harry’s got nothing on but some scratchy looking off-white towel wrapped around his waist; everything else is just out there, soft summer-tanned skin and dark ink. Light, light eyes. Wet hair that’ll surely form tight ringlets once it’s dry, hanging ‘round his face with his head bent down. 

Matty doesn’t remember how, or even why this is happening-- but Harry is painting his nails a sheer pink color. Just a touch away from being pastel. Just a breath away from resembling the overhead motel sign outside-- flickering and dashing, the hazy hue seeping through their thin, cheap curtains.

Matty can’t bring himself to say anything, can’t bring himself to speak. All he can do is watch Harry through his heavily lidded eyes-- listening to the small ‘fuck’ Harry mutters when he drags the polish up just a little too high onto the bed of Matty’s nail. He’s wiping it away quickly, with precision. He doesn’t want to mess up, and it’s so endearing that Matty feels like his chest might collapse. 

In fact, everything might collapse. Matty feels like the walls might start caving in, the earth will swallow him whole, he’ll close his eyes and when he opens them he’ll see he’s really just spiraling into nothing. He closes his eyes tight, opens them quick-- Harry’s still sitting beside him, their thighs just gently resting together. Matty’s fully clothed, wearing the same pair of jeans for the third day in a row; and Harry is still making his skin burn. 

Matty almost wants to apologize for even being so close to Harry when he’s just out of the shower. He’s a mess compared to the boy next to him. From the inside of his head, to the soles of his scuffed up boots. Mess.

Harry is everything but. “You’re so not like me,” Matty breathes out.

“‘Course m’not. You’ve got a unique way about you. Probably no one out there is like you.”

Harry’s tone is as warm as his skin feels. Matty might usually take something like that offensively, being put up as this person that sticks out-- but Harry says it in such a way that Matty could never imagine that he meant it poorly. Harry has this way of making everything sound good, syrupy sweet. Harry has a way of drowning him and making him never want to come up for air.

It’s a funny little power that Harry seems to have.

Matty decides to stop thinking for a bit, because everything he’s thinking is pointing towards wanting to kiss Harry-- and he shouldn’t. He’s too far gone. He lets his mind go autopilot, resting his chin in his open palm, eyes glazing over as he licks his lips and observes Harry. 

Harry’s humming something melodic, something vaguely familiar as he goes from finger to finger, each time getting a little better at his paint job. Every once in a while Harry stops to smile and admire his work, and Matty can feel his slightly dry lips cracking into a smile, too. Just from watching the other boy.

Then, Harry is gently taking Matty’s hand into his completely, raising it to his mouth and beginning to blow carefully along his nails. 

Everything inside of Matty clenches and seizes up. His breathing comes short, and something in his chest rattles-- like something in there is trying to tell him he’s too fond of Harry and whatever this whole situation is. Matty knows he’s being ridiculous and melodramatic, but nothing’s ever felt this strangely intimate before. 

Harry’s close enough to where Matty can smell his body wash; some kind of musky, floral scent. It drives Matty crazy inside. Matty probably smells like stale cigarettes and cheap wine. A bead of water rolls down Harry’s temple, and Matty is quick to wipe it away, revelling in the small smile that quirks up Harry’s full lips.

“You’re gorgeous.”

Matty means it so much. He’s not sure the last time he said that to someone and truly, really meant it, but right now, it’s the only thing he can think to say, and it’s never been more true to him despite how small his voice sounds. 

“Just saying that ‘cause you’re pissed still from the party,” Harry’s drawl is slow and calculated, and as he looks up at Matty through his lashes, he takes his hand back so he can give one last blow to the nails. Leaning up and away from Matty, still holding his hand with that smile tracing his mouth.

All of a sudden, Matty feels very sullen. “No.” He’s shaking his head, brows furrowed. Through his still drunken state he catches the way Harry laughs quietly under his breath, fussing about with Matty’s hand in his lap. 

This completely unreal boy is touching him so lightly, so carefully, like if he presses too hard Matty might crumble. He’s got his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and Matty knows that he’s blushing now. Can feel the heat radiating from his own face.

Harry traces a line in Matty’s palm and he swears he feels chills.

“No way. I meant what I said. I know what I said.”

There’s a glimpse of something in Harry’s expression-- a flash of undefinable feelings. Matty may never know what Harry is thinking. Matty might never know, and it kills Matty a little bit inside. To know this could never work out.

Whatever this was.

Harry gets both of Matty’s hands in his lap. He’s smiling again as he lifts them for Matty to see; ten fingers painted haphazardly. Shiny and sweet, pink and dainty. “Not too bad of a job, yeah?”

The moment Matty thought might have come missed it’s turn. It got away from him. As usual.

But that didn’t mean Matty wouldn’t enjoy this moment. Matty would still feel fond, he’d still scoot closer to him and grin and marvel in the wonder that is Harry-- because that’s what Matty will always do when faced with him. Matty will always feel that pull. And, somehow, Harry must feel it too; because when Matty’s close, all Harry can do is stare at him so intensely, hang on to his every word so closely. Wonder what his mouth tastes like.

Perhaps, maybe some day Harry will know.

Maybe they’ll both get there.

Just not tonight.


End file.
